The missing treasure
by LoSa
Summary: Teen Power Inc story #9. An old, valueless painting was stolen from Raven Hill library. The same night someone tried to drown a man in the bay. The local businessman promised to pay a large sum of money to those who will find the stolen picture. The gang couldn't stand aside. But they didn't imagine where it would lead them. Elmo's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1. The robbery**

'Elmo! Elmo! Have you already known?' a loud, exciting voice was coming from my phone.

'Who is it?' I enquired in a sleepy voice.

'Are you still sleeping?' the receiver shrilled indignantly.

'Of course I am,' I yawned. 'It's Sunday after all. Liz, is it you?'

'Yes, it's me!' the receiver shrieked into my ear. 'Elmo! Something's happened!'

'What?' I sat up in my bed, rubbing my eyes. 'What's happened?'

'Someone took the painting from the library!' Liz yelled.

'Oh, Liz, it's too early for jokes!' I groaned. 'There are books in the library, not paintings.'

'Oh, Elmo, wake up!' Liz shrieked. 'It's not a joke! I'm telling you about the painting in Raven Hill Library. The painting that had been hanging right in front of the librarian desk. The painting of a mermaid!'

I fell silent for a while, remembering. Then fog in my head cleared a bit and I understood that Liz was talking about a small, pretty painting in a massive, gold-plated frame, which had been hanging in the library since I don't know when. The picture depicted a forest lake. The full moon shone brightly, reflecting in the dark water. A beautiful mermaid with long fair hair and bright green tail was sitting on a rock. Coquettishly smiling, she was beckoning to a young shepherd. Judging by his scared face, you could say that he was doing his best to resist the mermaid's charm. Who would win in this fight? Would the young shepherd be dragged under the water or manage to run away? We could only guess about it.

Though, constant visitors of the library, including me, didn't stare at the picture any more. We perceived this old canvas just like a part of furniture.

'Liz, I don't get it,' I shook my head to shake off remains of sleepiness. 'Since when can people borrow pictures from the libraries like books?'

'Elmo! Have you forgotten English?!" Liz screamed. "They didn't borrow it, they stole it."

"Stole?" I babbled in astonishment. "Who?"

"How would I know who?" Liz replied.

"How did you know about it?" I asked a new question.

"I came to the library to borrow a psychology book," Liz answered. "Do you remember I told you about those psychology books, a friend of mine had advised to read? So, there were so many interesting things that I decided to read the second tome and…"

"Liz, Liz, hang on!" I interrupted her before she began raving about these amazing books. "Let's go back to the point. What's happened with the picture?"

"Well, I came into the library," Liz replied. "Miss Crane, the librarian, was talking with Greta Vortek, and the police was everywhere. I asked what had happened and Greta told me that someone had gotten into the library at night and stolen the old picture."

"It's weird," I said thoughtfully.

"No, the weirder thing," Liz went on, "is that a large sum of money, which Miss Crane had left in the drawer of her desk wasn't touched. I heard Miss Crane telling Greta about it. And old, rare books also were untouched. The thieves took only this old, valueless painting."

"I don't get it," I babbled, shaking my head in astonishment. "Who would want this cheap painting? Listen, Liz, do you know how the thieves got in?"

"They drilled out the lock in the door," Liz answered.

"What?" I exclaimed, surprised even more. Raven Hill Library was one of the oldest buildings in Raven Hill, with thick walls and massive wooden doors. It must have taken no less than two hours for the thief to drill the lock out of this door. And all this hassle just for one cheap picture? Maybe it's a joke? But if it's a joke, it's a very silly joke. Who would spend half the night, drilling the lock out of the door, just for joke?

"Listen, Liz," I said. "Maybe they just didn't find the money?"

"They didn't even try to search the desk or the library," Liz replied. "Greta considers that the thieves weren't interested in money, they needed something else. And they knew exactly where to find it. Oh, by the way, Elmo, Greta asked me to come to the police station today to tell what I saw there. I'm their witness."

"Okay," I jumped out of bed and started to dash around the room, looking for my clothes. Suddenly I realised that it was a great story for the front page of the Pen. And I just couldn't afford myself to lose this chance. "Listen, Liz," I said, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pulled on my jeans. "Tom and Sunny must be in the Glen already. You go there. I'll pick up Nick and Richelle and we'll go there too. We should discuss it before you go to the police."

"Okay," Liz agreed and hung up.

###

Quickly I swallowed my breakfast and sprinted out of the house. Before that I had phoned Nick and told him to finish the cleaning as quickly as possible. Today was the first day of our new job - casual house-cleaning job for a woman called Mrs France. She hired us while her usual cleaner was on sick leave. Nothing very interesting, but of course Liz said that we should take any job we could get. Nick and Richelle were against it as usual, but they were outvoted. And they had to take the first duty.

I crossed Craigend road, rounded a corner at a shop and ran down the street. Finally I found a small, neat house where Mrs France lived, and impatiently pressed the doorbell. The door opened. A very thin, old woman with short grey hair was standing in the doorway, looking gravely at me. It wasn't Mrs France as far as I remembered.

"What do you want, young man?" the woman asked in a lugubrious, wary voice.

"Um…Hello. I've come to meet Nick and Richelle…" I babbled, confused. "They work here today… Er… Cleaning, dusting…" my voice trailed off as she stared at me as if I was an underage thief or hooligan.

"You ought to introduce yourself for a start," the grey-haired woman's eyes were drilling me. I looked down to avoid the eye contact, not able to stand her penetrating eyes any more. To my relief at that moment Nick and Richelle turned up in the hallway.

"It's our friend!" Richelle said politely to the woman.

The grey-haired woman reluctantly stepped aside, letting them out. "Polite people introduce themselves before speaking to an unknown person," she pointed out, turning away.

"Elmo Zimmer," I satisfied her curiosity, but the grey-haired woman slammed the door without bothering to glance at me. As soon as the door closed behind her, Nick and Richelle burst out laughing like mad.

"Who is this hag?" I asked them as we walked along the road to the Glen.

"It's Howshedied," Nick giggled.

"Who?"

"Howshedied," Richelle repeated clearly.

"Is she from Egypt?" I asked a new question.

Nick glanced at me. "No," he said, puzzled. "She's from Sydney."

"Okay. But all the same she must be Egyptian or Arabian," I suggested.

"Why do you think so?" they both stared at me in bewilderment.

"Well, her surname is so… weird," I stared back at them. "Or it's her husband's surname?"

"Husband's?" Richelle opened her eyes wide. "She has never been married."

"Why does she have such a weird surname then?" I shook my head.

"First of all it's not a surname, it's a name," Richelle replied, looking at me pityingly, as if she couldn't understand why I didn't know such obvious things.

"Nickname, to be more exact," Nick added. "How-she-died," he pronounced slowly.

"Yeah, now I see, it's not an Arabian name," I laughed. "But why do you call her like that? Was she really dying?"

"No, she wasn't yet." Richelle muttered with a sort of pity in her voice.

"But she likes it very much," Nick added.

"Likes to die?" I grinned.

"No, not die. She likes to tell anyone who listens to her how her friends or relatives or just people she knew were dying," Nick explained. "It's not a woman, it's a whole funeral service."

"It was awful," Richelle complained. "All what Nick and I heard today was: "Annie, do you remember how he was dy-ying?! Remember her dy-ying?" she mimicked the lugubrious, lyrical intonation of the grey-haired woman.

"As if you spent a lot of time there," I grinned.

"Well, tomorrow you'll hear how someone was dying in agony," Richelle wrinkled her nose.

"He's so-o yello-owish, cheeks are su-unken," Nick drawled in a sepulchral-lugubrious voice. "He doe-esn't mo-ove any more. But what a bra-aveness!"

"Shut up! I beg you!" Richelle howled, digging him in the ribs. "I can't hear it any more!"

"What's her real name?" I asked, grinning.

"Matilda Geraldine."

"Good name for such a person," I approved. "But How-she-died sounds better."

Talking, we reached the Glen and walked down the narrow, winding path that led to the clearing where we usually gathered. Tom and Sunny were there. They were sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk and passionately kissing.

"Hi, guys!" Richelle called them.

Sunny immediately pushed Tom away, but noticing that Liz wasn't with us, she calmed down. Even though we knew about their relationship, they still tried not to show their feelings in front of us. Especially if Liz was with us.

"Where have you been?" Tom muttered accusingly, as though he had spent wearying hours waiting for us.

"Listen," I said excitedly. "Something happened. Raven Hill Library was burgled. Liz was there. She'll tell everything when she comes."

"I'm here," Liz shouted, pounding down the track towards us. She struggled through the last bush and threw herself down on the ground beside us, gasping for breath.

"What was stolen?" Tom demanded impatiently, as if Liz was at least one of the thieves.

"The painting," Liz panted, clutching her side.

"The painting?" Tom's jaw dropped. "Were there paintings in that library?"

"There was one. With a mermaid," Richelle said.

"Oh, this one," Nick snorted. "Do you really think that someone would decide to steal this childish caricature?"

"What do you know about art?!" Tom immediately objected. "This picture was very interesting. It's not childish!"

"Oh, sure!" Nick rolled his eyes. "How could I forget that you, Moysten, are an expert in rubbish paintings?"

"Maybe they wanted to steal something else and stole the picture just for distraction?" Sunny suggested, ignoring them.

"Well maybe. But they didn't take the money from the librarian desk," Liz said.

"It was a nutcase then," Tom announced without any shadow of a doubt. "To take the mermaid and leave the money. If I were them, I would take the money and leave the mermaid."

"You still have the chance, Tom," Nick jeered. "The money is still in the drawer."

"Shut up, you both," Sunny said before these two began arguing again. "Let Liz explain."

"There's no time to explain," Liz stood up. "Miss Vortek asked me to come to her office as soon as possible. I'm their witness. Come on. I'll tell you everything on the way there."

We went out of the Glen and headed for the police station. As we walked Liz told the others what she'd already told me. As it turned out Liz didn't notice anything unusual. Except for the stolen picture, everything was in perfect order in the library.

In the police station we went straight into Greta's office and settled down on the chairs.

"So," Miss Vortek turned to Liz. "I'm listening to you. What did you see?"

Hardly had Liz finished telling how she'd come to the library to borrow a book and seen that the door was broken, when a small, funny-looking old man stormed in. I knew this man. His name was Paul Palmer and he was a former scientist or researcher. I knew him because he was a close friend of my grandfather's and still often visited the Pen, sharing gossips with old reporters. His son, Samuel Palmer owned a chain of shops in the city, and often published advertisements in the Pen.

"Miss Vortek, dear!" the old man yelled. "Disaster! Terrible disaster! We've found a drowned man!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2. The "drowned man"**

"A drowned man?!" Greta exclaimed. "Where?"

"On the beach!" Mr Palmer panted. "Not far from Raven Hill Park!"

"It's bad," Greta sighed heavily. "Damn! What an awful day!"

"It's not "bad", Miss Vortek, it's terrible!" Mr Palmer flung up his fat hands.

"It depends on the way you look at it," Greta said sulkily. "For the floater it's terrible, of course, and for his relatives too, if they exist. But for me it's just bad. Because I have to investigate another case with a dead body."

"But he isn't a dead body yet," the old man vigorously shook his head. "He still shows signs of life. Sammie, my son, is there, trying to recover him."

Hearing about Sammie I couldn't help smiling. This childish name completely wasn't associated with huge, fat, middle-aged Samuel Palmer, who ran a chain of shops in the city.

"Let's go, Miss Vortek!" Mr Palmer dashed to the door. "I'll show you."

Greta sighed, but followed Mr Palmer towards the entrance.

"May we go with you?" Nick, Liz and I rushed after her. Greta nodded. After all we had helped the police to investigate a lot of crimes before.

A police car was already waiting for her outside. Liz and I got into the back seat. Mr Palmer kindly offered to drive the others.

###

When we arrived at the coast, the first thing we saw was a big crowd. People there flocked, whispering and pointing. We pushed our way through the crowd and saw a pale man, who was lying still on the sand. His mouth was hanging open. His hair was messy. Samuel Palmer towered above him. The Work Demons, our enemies, also were here.

"What are they doing here?" Liz whispered, looking sideways at them.

"We heard shouts and decided to help," Henshaw grinned.

"There's nothing to help, I'd say," Tom commented grimly, looking at the deadly pale, still man. "The guy is dead. It's obvious."

Right at that moment the "dead guy" let out a faint groan. Samuel started to press down on his chest with redoubled energy. After a couple of minutes the "drowned" man at last opened his eyes.

"Hey, are you okay, mate?" Samuel bent over him. The next moment the "drowned man" sharply raised his hand, in which he had been holding a piece of golden wood and hit his saviour on the head. Samuel howled with pain and surprise, and jumped aside. The "drowned" guy collapsed back on the sand, looking exhausted.

"Dead guy, huh?!" Samuel glared at Tom, rubbing his head. He quickly bent down and grabbed the piece of wood from the man's hands. He had already swung his arm to throw it away, but suddenly stopped.

"What's that?" he stared at the piece of wood.

I came up to him to look at it closely. What I saw made my jaw drop. It was a gold-plated fragment of picture frame.

"It's from that stolen picture!" Richelle screamed.

"Are you sure?" Greta looked at her attentively. "Hey?" she shook the man by the shoulder, "where did you get it?"

"Don't touch me," the man roared. "Don't touch me! Or I'll kill you!"

"Aggressive guy," Samuel shook his head, edging away just in case.

"I'll kill you," the man went on roaring.

"Where did you get this thing?" obviously trying to impress Miss Vortek, Henshaw bravely rushed to the man and grabbed his shirt-collar. But his hoarse voice seemed to recall some unpleasant memories in the man's head, because he fumbled in the sand for a stone and threw it at Bradley.

"Don't come! I'll kill you!" the man began roaring again. "Help me! Anyone! Help me! They're killing me!"

"Yeah, the day's becoming better and better…" Greta drawled, taking a step back.

At that moment we heard a wailing sound of sirens. An ambulance swooped down the street and screeched to a stop on the road. Two guys in white coats leaped out and pushed their way through the crowd towards us.

"So? Where's the floater?" asked one of them.

"Here he is. Roaring," Samuel answered, still keeping as far as possible from the aggressive guy.

"It's a shock," the doctor nodded. "Typical reaction."

He quickly gave the man an injection, then two ambulance men put him on the stretcher, and loaded him into the car. The driver started the engine, and with a roar and jerk, they were off. Greta seemed to be very pleased that she didn't have to investigate a case with a dead body. She took the piece of frame from Samuel and headed for her car.

"Miss Vortek! Miss Vortek! Wait!" Mr Palmer senior shouted after her. "You didn't tell us about the library. What's happened to the painting?"

"It was stolen," Greta replied briefly. "We're looking for the thief."

"Oh. Oh," Mr Palmer sighed heavily. "I liked this picture so much. That little mermaid was so beautiful and… sexy. Miss Vortek, you must find this picture. I want it back!" the old man stamped his foot capriciously.

"We're doing our best," Greta muttered.

"Okay, look," Samuel Palmer said loudly. "I'll pay 3000$ to those who'll find the picture. Including you, Miss Vortek," he added, looking at her meaningfully.

"Great," she grumbled under her nose, turning round and walking towards her car. "Lots of teenagers, poking their noses around and looking everywhere for clues. As if I don't have enough problems without it."

She got into her car and drove away. Mr Palmer and his son also clambered into their car. Samuel began to back out of his parking spot, then drove onto the road and soon they disappeared behind a corner. The crowd slowly started to dwindle away. Henshaw turned to his friends, smirking.

"Come on, guys," he said. "We'd better hurry. Other parts of the picture frame must be somewhere here." They glanced at us, sneering, and started walking up the beach, looking down at the sand and kicking rocks, sticks and other litter.

###

We decided that the Work Demons had a good idea for once, and went in an opposite direction, looking down at the sand, from time to time bending down for a better look at something what seemed interesting. We didn't find another piece of the frame yet, but Tom and Liz had filled their bags with odd stones, shells and other stuff like that.

Nick was chatting endlessly about the reward. "We must find this painting," he said, watching Tom bend down and pick up a disgusting dirty shell, which he happily shoved into his bag. Nick looked away. "We poked our noses in criminal cases without being paid for it. But now we can receive money."

Richelle heavily sighed and muttered something.

"Think about money, Rich," Nick reminded her. "Do you mind?"

"No, not at all," she replied. She was a bit irritated because her high heels were drowning in the sand all the time. "Of course I want to receive a reward," she went on. "But at first we should find this picture. We don't even know from what to start. Plus these Work Demons. They will be in our way, causing troubles for us."

At that moment Tom, who had walked far ahead, ducked behind a big rock and when we came nearer, he leaped out, yelling hideously. Richelle screamed and grabbed Nick's sleeve. Tom laughed.

"Idiot," Richelle shrieked.

"Oh, wow!" Tom disappeared behind the rock again. "Take a look!"

"Have you found another piece of the frame?" Liz rushed to him. The next moment she jumped back, shrieking. "Yuck! It's disgusting! Take that thing away from me!"

"What's there?" Nick asked curiously.

"A fish. Dead," Liz wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"It's not only dead, it's dead and rotten," Tom added importantly.

"Is there any fragment of frame?" Sunny asked him.

Without answering, Tom disappeared behind the rock again. A minute later he clambered back into view.

"There are no frames, nor mermaids, nor shepherds," he commented, brushing sand off his knees. "Only this dead, rotten fish."

"Come on, then" I muttered. "We're wasting time."

Carefully inspecting litter on the sand, we trudged ahead.

"I don't understand what we're doing here," Richelle grumbled, stumbling over rocks and drowning in the sand. "Even if we find this picture frame. So what? What's the point in it?"

"Listen," Liz suggested, ignoring Richelle's nagging. "What if the painting is valuable? Or," she gave a new suggestion, "this nearly drowned guy could know that the painting was valuable and could steal it."

"It's possible!" Nick agreed. "Yes! That was why he held that piece of picture frame in his hands," he stopped abruptly. "Because he stole the picture and decided to break the frame. Think of that. The picture wasn't big. Without the frame he can hide the canvas in every bag."

"As far as I remember, a couple of hours ago you said that this "mermaid" was nothing but rubbish," Tom drawled. "Now you think that a half-drowned guy stole it. And when he got the painting, it made him so happy, that he decided to drown together with this picture," suddenly he burst out laughing.

You're right in it, I thought, looking down at the sand. Why did he hold this piece of picture frame? All of a sudden I noticed something glowing between two rocks. I bent down and picked up another gold-plated piece of picture frame.

"Wow!" the others gasped. They surrounded me, examining the gilded piece of wood. Now, after looking at it closer, we all could say for sure that it was a piece of frame from the stolen picture. Tom shoved the piece of frame into his bag together with the dirty stuff he'd found, and we went further, excitingly discussing our find.

###

We reached the place where the bank curved, and stopped. There was no point in going further. So when Liz suggested going back the way we'd come to check if we missed something, we all agreed. Except for Richelle, of course, who kept muttering to herself.

We returned to the place where the drowned man had been found. The Work Demons were there. They stood at the edge of the water, talking. They looked quite determined to get the upper hand over us this time and receive the reward.

The Demons didn't see us. They were too busy listening to Henshaw, their leader, who was gesturing vigorously, holding something in his hand. Suddenly Tom gasped and nudged me in the ribs, pointing at the thing which Henshaw held. I nodded. It was the third part of the frame. We exchanged anxious glances. It seemed that The Work Demons were, at least, at the same level as we were. Nutter, who obviously had found this piece of frame, was pointing at the sea, talking excitedly.

"Look," Joel Hiltoff said loudly enough for us to hear. "I saw a movie where thieves stole a painting from a museum, wrapped it into a waterproof material and hid it on the bottom of the ocean floor. Maybe that drowned guy was one of the thieves. They knew they needed time to get the painting out of the country, so they broke the frame, indemnified the painting against water and hid it at the bottom of the bay. When the police stop searching everywhere, they will smuggle the painting overseas and sell there. Just imagine how it's easy. They catch a plane with a small roll of painting in their bag. Who would know!"

We exchanged glances again. It was logical. And quite possible. All of a sudden all six of the Work Demons began to hastily take off their clothes.

"What are they doing?" Richelle stared at them, puzzled. Henshaw, Nutter and the others threw their clothes down on the sand and stepped into the cold water.

"I think they're going to look for the stolen painting at the bottom of the sea," Tom grunted, pressing his hands to his mouth and trying hard not to burst into laughter.

Richelle shivered. "I can't watch how they swim in such cold water," she complained.

I could understand her. It was winter. It was quite warm now, but not so warm to swim. The water must be very cold.

"I hope that they won't catch pneumonia," Liz said, anxiously looking at the diving Demons.

"Look, what if they're right?" Tom stopped giggling. Now he looked quite worried. "What if the painting _is hidden_ at the bottom?"

"We'll lose this game then," said Sunny.

"Yeah, but believe me, they won't find anything there," Nick waved his hand.

"How can you be so sure?" Tom turned to him.

"First of all," Nick grinned, "I'm sure that there are no pictures in the water, it's all rubbish. And second of all, even if the picture really is hidden at the bottom of the ocean, the Work Demons will never find it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because they don't have enough brains to find even what's lying right in front of their noses," Nick raised one eyebrow.

"Come on," Richelle pulled at his sleeve. "I'm tired and I want to eat something."

"Me too," Tom said immediately.

We arranged to meet at four o'clock in the library to ask Miss Crane about the piece of frame which we'd found, and went off in different directions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3. It's a dead end**

At four o'clock we gathered in the library. Greta Vortek also was there. When I came in she was enquiring Liz and Nick about the found piece of frame. Tom told me that Miss Crane recognized the piece of frame and confirmed that it was from the stolen picture.

I told Miss Vortek our suggestion that the "drowned" man could be connected with the thieves or even could be one of them.

"Maybe," Greta agreed when I finished. "By the way, he came to himself, but he can't remember a thing. Doctors say that he has a loss of memory because of terror or shock."

"Poor thing," Liz's soft heart immediately filled with sympathy.

Miss Vortek told us that the man's name was Ross Adaskey, he lived in Raven Hill. Neighbours told the police that it was a calm, intelligent man, an artist, or related with artists. Doctors consider that he is in deep shock, he shouts "I'll kill you" all the time when he sees anyone. He even punched the doctor in the eye.

"Now the only thing that we can say for sure," Greta went on, "is that there was a struggle between this man and somebody else. There are bruises and other traces of fight all over his body. We think that someone tried to drown him."

"Why the hell did he lose his memory when we need it so much?!" Tom muttered as if the "drowned man" put a spoke in our wheel on purpose. "Other people survive in catastrophes and in air crashes and nothing happens to them! They remember everything to the tiniest details."

"By the way, Tom," Greta turned to him. "I'd like to know your opinion as an artist. Could this painting be valuable? How do you think?"

"Honestly, I don't think so," Tom shrugged, "The picture was interesting, and the artist managed to create a pretty mermaid and beautiful background, but that's all. I don't remember anything special about this painting except for this. But I don't know for sure, I'm not a fine art expert after all."

"Oh, speaking about fine art," Miss Crane clapped herself on the forehead. "That reminded me that there are inventories of library property in the archive. The picture must be mentioned in these books. Boys, come with me, please. I need your help.

We went after her between the shelves with books and soon returned with several old, yellowish tomes, each labelled with "Inventory" and its year.

"Let's see," Greta grabbed the oldest book of 1967 year. "Books… Appliance…" she murmured, leafing through the book. "Furniture… Desks… Tables… Chairs… Oh, wow!" she exclaimed, "It says that The Queen of Denmark visited Raven Hill in 1958 during her trip around Australia, and spent several hours in the library, reading books," she looked down at the old armchair she was sitting in. "Maybe the Queen was sitting in this chair, where I'm sitting now?"

"Maybe," the librarian nodded. "But you, Miss Vortek, aren't a queen. And you have to look for the stolen picture."

"That's right," Greta sighed drearily. She turned a few pages.

The door of the library slammed. A middle-aged, well-dressed, imposing-looking man came in.

"Oh, hello, Mr Hampson," said Nick.

"Hello, Nick,' the man said. "Miss Crane, I heard about the robbery and I know you must be awfully busy, but I'd like to return these books and borrow several new ones."

"Sure, Mr Hampson," Miss Crane stood up and went over to her desk.

"Have you found out anything about the thieves?" the man said, staring at Constable Vortek with interest. Then his eyes fixed on Nick. "Can I ask what you're doing here, Nick?"

"Reading," Nick muttered gruffly.

"If I were you I would spend my every spare minute in the office with your father, learning the family business," the man said sententiously. "Your father…"

"I perfectly know where I'd better spend my spare time, thank you," Nick interrupted him. The man's eyes narrowed with anger, he opened his mouth to say something, but Miss Crane quickly interfered.

"Mr Hampson, you can look for what you want in the catalogue," she said.

"Sure," the man nodded, and without saying anything else, he sauntered off towards the computers.

"Who's that?" Tom whispered.

"He works with my father," Nick muttered. "Another wonderful, clever man with promising prospects. If only you knew how much I'm sick of their exhortations!"

"Miss Crane," Greta called the librarian. "There's a mention of an Italian baroque hassock in this book…" Greta made a short pause, then repeated, "Italian baroque… Where is this hassock?"

"Disappeared many years ago," Miss Crane sighed. "Take a look in the book for 1970 year. There is already no mention of this Italian baroque there. No one knows where it had gone."

"So someone ran off with the hassock," Greta sighed. "It's a shame. I'd like to look at it."

"Now someone ran off with the mermaid," Tom put in.

"I wonder how they could run off with the mermaid," Liz giggled. "They had to give her legs first."

"I don't know about legs," Tom winked at her. "But the fact is that the mermaid also has gone away."

"She probably married the shepherd," Nick snorted. "Why lose such an opportunity if she has legs now"

Constable Vortek and Miss Crane couldn't help laughing.

"Okay, let's continue," Greta turned several next pages at last. "Oh, here it is," she exclaimed. "A painting of unknown artist," she read out loud. "The Guileful mermaid. The painting has no artist's signature. Canvas. Oil. Approximately nineteenth century… Oh, take a look! The frame is three times more valuable than the painting. The frame is gold-plated, made in France, eighteenth century. I wonder how this picture could emerge in this little library."

We exchanged glances.

"They might steal the picture because of the frame," Tom exclaimed.

"And then broke it and threw it into the ocean?" Nick raised his eyebrows.

He was right in it. We all could understand that. There was a long silence in the library. Suddenly a bright, but crazy idea came into my head.

"Listen, I got it!" I exclaimed excitedly. "I think I know what the thieves were after. The frame."

"Oh, yeah," Nick drawled. "So they were after the frame and stole it just in order to throw it and run away?

"Hang on," I raised my hand to stop him. "Don't you realise that we haven't found the _fourth_ piece of the frame? And I doubt that we'll find it. Because the last piece of the frame has a hiding place.

"Hiding place?" the others gasped.

"Let's see…" Greta reached for the one of the pieces of the broken frame.

Nick and I grabbed other pieces. Only now we noticed that the frame was massive and volume enough to carve a cavity in it. If someone wanted to hide something small, but valuable, it was difficult to think of a better place.

"I wonder," Nick said thoughtfully, "how long the "Guileful mermaid" had been hanging in the library?"

"As far as I know it'd been here since the opening," Miss Crane answered. "And I should point out that this library is very old."

"What _I wonder_," Richelle said, inspecting her hair for split ends, "is who could know about the hiding place and why did they come to steal it only now,"

As usual she was the one who pointed out at obvious facts, which the rest of us didn't notice. If there was a hiding hollow in the frame, it was very old. Why did someone come to take it only now? The picture had been hanging in the library at least for forty years. I'm sure that during these years there were loads of opportunities to quietly take whatever was hidden in the frame without attracting anyone's attention. Besides, those who got into the library last night could take the content of the hiding place and leave the picture on the wall. Then it would look just like a practical joke and no one would even think of investigating this case.

There was only one possible explanation of what had happened – someone or something scared the thieves off. That was why they couldn't stay any longer in the library, and having taken the painting with frame, they had to run away.

"Maybe," Greta sighed when I said this version out loud. "Or maybe it was something else. Anyway. I have to go now. If you find something or an interesting idea comes into your brainy heads, call me, please."

She put the papers in her briefcase and went out. We also took our stuff and saying goodbye to Miss Crane left the library.

"Greta also seems to want to receive the reward," Nick muttered. "I don't think she'll give it to us."

"I don't know about Greta," Liz replied dryly, "but you, Nick, certainly won't give it to anyone."

"Of course," Nick looked down his nose at her. "If we find the picture before the others, the reward will be ours."

"Listen, what if the burglar did it for someone?" I suggested, ignoring them. "What if someone hired the burglar to steal the picture? In this case the burglar probably didn't know about the hiding place."

"It's possible," Sunny agreed.

"Right!" Liz jumped up. "And this burglar was Ross Adaskey. He stole the painting and brought it to the customer, who was waiting for him on the beach. And then the customer tried to drown Mr Adaskey so as not to leave witnesses, then he threw the frame into the ocean and ran away with the painting. And with the fourth piece of frame. Or vice versa! Ross Adaskey could be the customer! He hired someone to steal the picture, but then that guy decided to take everything and tried to drown Mr Adaskey."

"Or Mr Adaskey was just a poor guy, who'd been at the wrong time in the wrong place," Sunny put in calmly.

At that moment Tom let out a tragic groan. "Where to look for? Whom to look for?" He moaned, swaying from side to side, his head in his hands. "This one could steal… that one could steal… others could steal… It's like a puzzle and we don't have any clue to solve it!"

"It's worse than a puzzle," Richelle grumbled. "It's a dead end."

"Hey," I grinned. "Don't give up! Let's go to the Pen office and think about it."

"Well, I've got other things to think about," Richelle muttered. "Nick, you promised to help me with the maths, remember?"

"Sure," Nick sighed. "We're going home, guys. Let's discuss it tomorrow."

As it turned out the others also had something to do on a Sunday evening. So we arranged to discuss it tomorrow at school and went our separate ways.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4. The great writer William Shakespeare**

The next morning I met Liz, Tom, Sunny and Nick in the school yard. I'd come running up to them and already opened my mouth to tell them my ideas, when Mary Horsety, our classmate, sauntered up to us. It was a cold winter morning, but her jacket was unzipped, scarf picturesquely waved in the cold wind. Her cheeks were bright red.

"You'll chill your head," I said sententiously.

"There's nothing in her head to chill except for the bone," Nick snorted.

"See who's talking," Horse snapped, offended. "Unlike you I've got some brains. By the way, Kontellis," she gave Nick a vengeful glance, "have you already known that you were chosen for history tests?"

Nick shrugged, but it was obvious that this news didn't make him happy.

It was a countrywide assessment, which included testing in all public schools. We had to take tests in different subjects. Then the obtained results would be statistically processed in order to make judgment on quality of studying in every school.

The principal and other teachers had been haranguing us since they had learnt about it. Mr Frangelli, the principal, in his speech emphasized the honour of Raven Hill High and compared the future testing with a "major battle for life of our native school", and finally having barked "let's go, my friends! Defend your school! Don't let the enemies stain its honour with mud!", he went out to charge other students.

Horse also had been lecturing us. Unlike Mr Frangelli she didn't care about the school honour. In fact she didn't pay much attention to education at all, but she did care about Mr Craven, our history teacher. Everybody knows that she's been in love with him and won't allow anyone to let him down. Besides, it was a chance for her to make Mr Craven pay attention to her and her knowledge of history. So she'd warned us that she herself would deal with anyone who wouldn't pass history tests successfully. We all took this warning seriously. Horse was a quite big and strong girl, and it was better to keep away from her when she was in a fury.

"Moysten, you also have history test," Mary went on. "I hope you've been preparing?"

"It's not your business," Tom replied grimly.

"Oh, I see, I see," Horsety shook her head, grinning meaningfully. "Tom is angry. Why? Sunny doesn't pay enough attention to you, does she?"

"I said it's not your business," Tom growled.

"My business or not, but Sunny pays more attention to sport than to you. It's the fact," Horse snorted.

Tom turned his back on her and started rummaging in his bag, pretending to look for something. While they were quarrelling, Mr Brinkley's car drove over to the school gates and parked. Richelle clambered out and sauntered towards us, looking extremely anxious.

"Hi!" Nick pulled her towards him and kissed.

"Do you remember my friend Kelly, who dated Giovanni, that guy from Italy?" Richelle said to him in a tragic voice. "They even started living together. I told you, remember?"

"So?"

"So he didn't come home last night."

"Oh, I see," Nick snorted, brushing his jet-black hair off his forehead. "I heard such tragic stories. I guess this Giovanni guy popped into a shop after work to buy some milk or bread. And there was so long queue that he came home only in the morning."

"Nick, it's no laughing matter," Richelle frowned. "I'm serious. He didn't come home at all."

"Oh, sometimes it happens this way," Nick agreed.

"Whose boyfriend didn't come home?" Horse asked with vivid interest, turning to Richelle.

"Giovanni, Kelly's boyfriend," Tom chipped in. "He popped into a shop to buy milk…"

"What the hell milk?!" Richelle interrupted irritably. "A friend of mine, Kelly, dated an Italian guy," she started to explain to Horse. "He's been living in Raven Hill for about a year. He and Kelly started to live together. And last night he didn't come home."

"Is the guy cool?" Horse enquired.

"He owns a shoe shop in the shopping mall," Richelle explained.

"Oh, I see. It's obvious. If he's a businessman, he must be somewhere with girls," Horsety said knowledgeably.

"I doubt it," I snorted.

"What can you know about a personal life," Horse looked down her nose at me.

"I know enough," I muttered.

"Is that so?" Mary drawled through gritted teeth. "And what do you know?"

"A lot," I mumbled. "And I think that this Giovanni could hide from his competitors. Or they could kidnap him."

"Oh yeah, sure," Nick snorted.

"Why not?" I had to defend myself. "This Giovanni guy has his own business. And in business, as you must know, kidnapping is a commonplace thing."

"As if you know anything about business," Horsety snorted.

"I know!" I muttered. "My father has his own business."

"Do you think that anyone who has his own business is going to be kidnapped?" Horsety jeered. "Maybe you also think that your father can be kidnapped because he has his business?"

"Why not?" I looked up at her from under my brows.

"Honestly, Elmo!" Nick drawled. "Who will ever want to kidnap your father if they spend more money on fuel than they'll be able to receive as a reward?"

Horsety gave a muffled laugh.

"Fools," I muttered, but very quietly so that Nick or Horsety wouldn't hear my words. I felt my cheeks blushing. Neither Nick nor Horsety ever took me seriously. They didn't think much of me or of my family business. I wonder why.

I turned my back on them and started looking at a huge black jeep, which drove up to the school and stopped. Brent Howe, our classmate got out, accompanied with Mr Howe and his security, Omar Killthewolf. Mr Howe said something to Brent. Brent nodded, and irritably waving his hand, walked towards us.

"Hi, guys," he greeted us. "I'm sick of dad's lectures," he rolled his eyes. "He says all the time that I should study better and that I should think about my future and all this stuff. Ugh! It's so annoying!"

We all nodded with sympathy. Brent went on muttering something about his strict family. The school yard was crowded with students. Despite the cold morning, no one wanted to go to the classes.

Lazily I watched a small truck drive up to the school gates and abruptly sway to a halt, nearly scratching Mr Howe's jeep. Two men in equal brown overalls jumped out of the truck. An old, grey Toyota, which was following the truck, rounded the both cars, and stopped right in front of Mr Howe and his security. A small man with long beard leaped out of Toyota, pulled out a phone and punching numbers, strode towards them. The security's face tensed, his hand slipped down into the pocket.

The small man wanted to go through the gates, but an unexpected handicap in the form of a huge security rose in front of him. The man bumped into the security's wide chest and bounced back like a ball.

"What's going on?" he jumped up. "Let me go! Right now!"

Huge Omar Killthewolf didn't even move.

"Mr Frangelli! Mr Frangelli!" the man squealed. "Can anyone call Mr Frangelli!?"

"Hey, mate, calm down, please," Killthewolf recommended him. "Otherwise I'll have to calm you down myself. And I want to warn you that people usually have headache after that."

"Let me go!" the man shrieked. "You have no right! I'm a famous national artist, Benjamin Frost!

The two men in brown overalls didn't interrupt into their argument. Even more, judging by their smiling faces I could easily say that they were enjoying the situation. Students, who'd been crowding in the school yard, also watched the scene with great interest.

The door of the school flung open. The principal Mr Frangelli and Mr Campbell, our teacher went out of the school.

"Ben! At last!" Mr Frangelli spread his arms widely and rushed to the bearded man.

"Let Mr Frost go!" Mr Campbell commanded, but Killthewolf didn't move. "Mr Howe," Mr Campbell turned to Brent's father, "tell your security to let Mr Frost go."

"Omar, let him…" Mr Howe at last deigned to look at the little mad. "Ben? Frost?!" he repeated in disbelief.

"Darren!" the bearded man shrieked, throwing himself into Mr Howe's arms.

"Ben Frost! Ben Frost!" Mr Howe patted the man on the shoulder. "I can't believe it's you!"

"Mr Frost is a pride of our school!" Mr Frangelli and Mr Campbell hung on the other side of the artist.

"Ben was the coolest geek in our campus!" Mr Howe was nodded.

We, as well as other students, stared in fascination at this meeting of old friends. Even severe Omar Killthewolf seemed to be impressed.

"Who is this bearded dork?" Tom whispered. "And why do they greet him as if he's a national hero?"

The others just shrugged. None of us had seen this man before. The meeting, meanwhile, was continuing.

"Ben! I can't believe that you studied in this school!" Mr Howe exclaimed. "My son studies here!"

"Yeah, I did," the "national artist" nodded. Then he turned to Mr Frangelli and pointed at the truck. "I've brought a gift for my school! It's Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare? But how could he..." Tom exclaimed with sincere astonishment on his face. "Didn't Shakespeare die long ago?"

The national artist glanced at Tom with visible disgust. "Of course he died," he muttered through gritted teeth. "It's not real Shakespeare. It's the sculpture of Shakespeare."

"Where did you buy it?" Mr Howe asked with interest.

"I didn't buy it," Mr Frost said solemnly. "I personally made it. I'm a sculptor."

"Oh, so do you know what's what in the fine art?" Mr Howe brightened up.

"Sure," the national artist nodded.

"Awesome! Can you consult me then?" Mr Howe clapped him on the shoulder. "The thing is that I want to buy a sculpture of a famous person to decorate my garden, but I don't know which sculptures are worthy to pay money for, and which are not."

"We'll discuss it," Mr Frost proudly raised his head. "Carry the sculpture out of the truck, please," he turned to the men in brown overalls.

Soon a tall, wooden box was pulled out of the truck and carried to the school doors. Mr Frost signed the blank and the truck clattered away.

"What's that? Let me see!" Tom made an attempt to force forward through the thick crowd of students.

"Moysten, we all were told that it was a sculpture of Shakespeare," Nick answered.

"Oh. I don't understand this fuss then," Tom immediately lost interest to the box. Classical writers aren't his favourite part of literature.

At that moment we heard the bell ringing in the school. The crowd of students reluctantly started moving towards the door, when Mr Campbell leant to Mr Frangelli's ear and whispered something to him. The principal nodded in agreement. Mr Campbell slipped back into the school.

"Attention, please!" Mr Frangelli shouted.

The crowd of students froze and stared at him inquiringly.

"Listen to me!" Mr Frangelli went on. "The first lesson is cancelled on the occasion of solemn opening of a sculpture, which our former student, now a famous national artist, Benjamin Frost, presented to our school!"

The crowd approvingly buzzed. Students split into groups again and sauntered away all over the wide school yard.

"By the way, I was granted the Government Premium for this sculpture," Mr Frost said with an air of importance. "The original bronze sculpture was bought by a famous collector. But I made an authorial copy for my native school."

There were some cheers and a few groans from the crowd. The school door flew open. Mr Campbell followed by other teachers came out. Mr Frangelli, nervously fingering his necktie, announced that Raven Hill High received a priceless gift today, and what was more important, the talent of the author of this sculpture had been grown up inside these walls. At these words Mr Frangelli picturesquely stretched out his hand towards the school building. Then he added that this sculpture would be a bright example of love and reverence to William Shakespeare. Looking at it, students would be proud of such a talented graduate like Benjamin Frost, and it would make them grind away at their studies with redoubled energy.

"Awesome!" Mr Larson droned. "A visible image of the great writer William Shakespeare is very important."

"Now Larson's going to bore us to death by this Shakespeare," Nick muttered. Luckily right at this moment people began applauding, so his words didn't reach Mr Larson's ears.

When the applause ceased, Mr Howe, his security, Brent, Zane, Tom, I and a few other volunteers, started to drag the heavy box into the school building. But soon we were stopped by a very unfortunate circumstance: the school door was too narrow for the wooden box. No matter how much we raised and turned the box, we couldn't push it through the doorway.

"There's only one way," Zane said importantly. "We need to take the sculpture out of the wooden box. Maybe then we'll be able to drag it through the door."

"Good idea," Mr Frangelli agreed. "Sunny," he turned to us, "could you run and bring hammers from the hangar?"

Sunny nodded, and ran away. In five minutes she returned with a box of implements. Men grabbed hammers and crowbars and started to pull nails out of the wooden box.

"Be careful! Be careful!" Mr Frost kept muttering, pacing around them. "Don't spoil it!"

Finally the wooden box was disassembled. Mr Frangelli solemnly pulled the protecting cloth off the statue. The next moment exciting buzz faded and the school yard went very quiet, what was rare for this place. Such silence was here only in the middle of nights. Students, teachers and even Mr Howe with his security silently gaped at the thing that was supposed to be the sculpture of the great writer, but in reality it turned out to be a huge something of bronze colour, which looked like a lump of rock, lacerated by a blast.

"Where's Shakespeare?" Mr Howe was the first to break the silence. "Omar," he turned to his security, "I'm afraid you'll have to deal with those people from the truck. They've carried a shit instead of an ingenious sculpture."

"Shut up, Darren, if you don't understand the real modern art!" the sculptor shrieked with a shudder of offence. "It's Shakespeare with a sword in one hand and a feather in the other hand. He's standing near a table with books. This sculpture is a pure example of the modern avant-garde!"

"I didn't mean to offend you, mate," Mr Howe clapped the sculptor on the shoulder. "To tell the truth, I like this sculpture. I just don't understand where Shakespeare is here and where his sword is!"

"Oh, man!" the national artist groaned. "There're no real connoisseurs of art in this world any more! You, children of modern world, want a clear picture, like photo. You don't want to switch on your imagination at all!"

"Look at Frangelli and Larson," Nick whispered to us. "They seem to like classical art more than modern avant-garde."

I turned to the place where the principal and teachers were standing. Mr Frangelli, and especially Mr Larson, looked as if they were going to collapse any moment. With horror they were staring at the statue, as if hoping that this massive bronze thing would turn into Shakespeare with his famous large collar and little beard.

"See, Darren," Mr Frost tiredly pointed at the most damaged part of the rock, "it's Shakespeare himself. Can you see my fantasy? This is his sword, as a symbol of power of art." He jabbed his finger at the other part of the statue. "It's the feather. He stands near the table with books, holding the feather, as a symbol of his great talent and all books, he wrote."

"Oh, wow!" Mr Howe bellowed in raptures. "It's just ingenious! No seriously! In one sculpture you managed to show Shakespeare, his feather, sword and table with books! Awesome!"

Richelle and Horse, meanwhile, were interrogating me.

"Okay, I understand about avant-garde," Richelle was saying, looking at me with her big innocent eyes. "But I don't understand what the sword and table with books have got to do with Shakespeare? He's a writer, isn't he? Why did this man make him with the sword?"

"If you didn't read so many glossy magazines and love stories, and read more classic literature," I grumbled, "you'd know that in Shakespeare's times all noble people were knights and had swords. The sword meant power and grandeur."

Richelle fell silent, thinking. "I think it's stupid," finally she said.

Mr Larson, meanwhile, was shaking his head in frustration. I guess he realised that looking at this sculpture, students were unlikely to fell in love with Shakespeare's poems.

Mr Howe, on the other hand, seemed to like this sculpture more and more. Like a true businessman, he quickly caught psychological state of the school administration, and offered to take this sculpture to put it in his garden and buy a new, more realistic Shakespeare with his wide collar and little beard instead. For what Mr Frangelli with pathos replied that this sculpture had been made specially for the school by its former student, and he, the principal of this school, just didn't have rights to give it to anyone else.

Mr Howe frowned with annoyance.

"Don't you worry, Darren," Mr Frost patted him on the shoulder. "I'll make any other writer for you. Any writer you want."

"And even Jonathan Swift with Gulliver?" Mr Howe asked hopefully.

"Of course," Mr Frost assured him.

"Okay, let's carry this thing inside," Mr Frangelli urged, before Mr Howe changed his mind. "Boys," he turned to us. "We need help."

Tom, Brent, Simon, I and a few other volunteers lifted the heavy statue and under the leadership of severe-looking Killthewolf dragged it into the school. Quistok was right. Without packaging the sculpture easily went through the doorway. In the hall there weren't problems either. But then we found ourselves face to face with another obstacle - staircase. One glance was enough to understand that the sculpture was too heavy and inconvenient to be carried up the stairs.

"Mr Frangelli, why don't you give this sculpture to me?" Mr Howe tried again. "I'll buy another, smaller one for the school."

"No way," Mr Frangelli shook his head stubbornly. "We need to lift it only to the first floor. We'll do it!"

"No, we can't," huge Omar Killthewolf shook his head. "It's impossible. The sculpture is too heavy."

"We'll do it!" Tom exclaimed. "I know how!"

Everyone turned to him.

"Do you know how to drag this thing up the stairs without any lifting mechanisms?" Mr Howe enquired.

"Yes, I do," Tom grinned at him.

"Hey, Tom, don't interfere," I advised him. "Let the adults decide what to do."

But Tom wasn't going to listen to me. He walked around the sculpture, examining it from every angle. Then he turned to the handrail and tapped it with his knuckles.

"If I were Mr Frangelli, I would keep away from Moysten's ideas. He's as crazy as Quistok," Nick murmured. He took Richelle's hand and they both walked away from the avant-garde sculpture.

"Tell us your idea," Mr Frangelli hopefully looked at Tom. "We're listening to you."

"So," Tom put on an important look and began ordering around. "Several men go over there," he pointed at the top of the steps. "And several stay here. We take the sculpture, set it onto the handrail and push it up like ancient Egyptians pushed stones while building pyramids. When we're pushing it, people at the top of the steps are pulling it. It's easy."

"See?" Mr Campbell exclaimed, smiling proudly. "For some students my lessons are not useless. I can easily entrust Moysten to lead people through a desert or mountains or anywhere else."

"Yeah, sure. If these people want to die," I heard Nick drawl behind my back.

Apparently wanting to impress Sunny, Tom placed us around the sculpture and started ordering. "Now. Listen to me! At the count of three we lift the sculpture and put it into the handrail. One," he began to count. "Two. Two and a half…"

In spite of such mass concentration of people there was a complete silence in the hall. Tom looked at the people around him, and fixing his eyes on Sunny, finally commanded, "Three!"

With stunning speed the statue flew up into the air and was placed onto the handrail.

"Now," Tom went on giving commands. "Omar! Listen to me! Now at the new count of three we start pushing this thing forward and you with other men start pulling it with all your might."

"It's not a thing, it's a work of art!" Mr Frost squealed indignantly.

Tom, without answering, glanced at Sunny again and began to count. Brent, Simon, I and other boys put our hands on the sculpture, ready to push it at the new count of three. Omar, Mr Campbell and a few other teachers stood on the top of the steps, ready to pull the sculpture. Everyone looked incredibly tensed.

"One," Tom said slowly. "Two. Sunny," he turned to Liz and Sunny, "look here! Three!"

I, as well as other boys started to push the sculpture, leaning all my weight against it. People on the top of the steps started to pull it with all their might. If Tom wanted to impress Sunny, he definitely managed to do it. Later he apologized that it was Omar and other teachers' fault. They, in Tom's opinion, too early started to pull the sculpture. In other words they started to pull before we started to push. Because of these nonsynchronous actions, Shakespeare parted with his table and feather. Or maybe it was the table and feather that parted with the writer. There were also several sceptics, who considered that the right part of the great writer and his table were still together, but the left part of the writer together with the sword drove up the handrails.

Although, I and the rest of the boys, who were pushing Shakespeare up had no time for discussions. We were too busy keeping this work of art up on the handrail, because obeying the physical laws it wanted to return back to the ground.

"Bastards!" the national artist was roaring.

"Hold this thing up, guys, hold it up!" Quistok was yelling tensely at the same time. "Otherwise it'll squash us all!"

Mr Howe and a few boys dashed towards us to help and flung themselves against the sculpture. It promoted a change of events, and the statue finally stabilised. To put it another way, Shakespeare stopped falling on us.

"Come on, guys! Push it! One...two...three... Push!" Mr Howe commanded.

Nick and Richelle, who had observed this scene from the sidelines, later told us that Shakespeare flew up the staircase like a bird. Although, when the great writer landed on the second floor, it nearly injured Killthewolf, who was deep in his personal thoughts. At the last moment Omar managed to leap back. As a result he got off with several scratches, what was nothing for experienced and bullet-pocked Omar's body.

"Bastards!" Mr Frost roared again. "I put all my soul into this sculpture! You broke my gift! You don't appreciate my efforts at all!"

Mr Campbell ran his finger along the split. "It's plaster!" he exclaimed. "No wonder it broke!"

"Oh, Ben, shame on you!" Mr Howe cast a reproaching glance at the national artist. "I thought you made a bronze sculpture for your native school."

"The material doesn't matter," Mr Frost retorted. "The main thing is that it's the author's copy. I made it of the same colour as the bronze original."

"No, Ben," Brent's father said severely, "My Jonathan Swift should be sculptured only out of bronze. I'm warning you, I won't pay for plaster."

"Can you discuss your Jonathan Swift later?" Mr Frangelli interrupted. "Let's decide what to do with this sculpture," he pointed at the two parts of the sculpture. "We can't leave it here like that."

"Let's carry it to the library and glue the both parts together," Tom advised.

"You, Moysten, have done enough for today," Mr Frangelli said in a threatening voice.

"What's my fault!?" Tom spread his arms. "Mr Frost should have warned us that it was just painted plaster before we started to lift it. And by the way," he added, "maybe this Shakespeare broke on the way here."

Mr Frangelli didn't find what to reply; he just sighed and waved his hand.

"I don't understand what you are arguing about," Richelle said in her innocent voice of a little girl. "Shakespeare himself isn't broken, is he?"

"Yes," the author nodded, pointing at the most damaged part of the lump of rock.

"So, what's the point in arguing?" Richelle went on. "Shakespeare is a writer? Right? So he can get on without table with books."

"No. My Shakespeare must be together with the table and sword, otherwise my idea will be ruined," the sculptor objected. "I'll repair it. Everything at my own expense. Don't worry, Mr Frangelli."

After that the both parts of the sculpture were carried into the school library without troubles. There Mr Larson asked the sculptor to write a detailed guidebook of this sculpture.

"Otherwise," the old teacher went on, "I won't be able to explain to students where Shakespeare's here and where the rest of his stuff is."

Mr Frost pityingly glanced at the "backward" teacher, but promised to bring the description. After that we all were sent to the classes.

"Moysten, you're lucky that it was plaster, not bronze," Nick snorted as we walked along the corridor.

"Yeah," Sunny giggled, "otherwise you, Tom, would have to give your part of reward to repair the statue.

"I meant well," Tom apologized. "If it had been a real bronze, everything would have happened another way."

"If it had... would have... Moysten, you're just a big conditional mood," Nick rolled his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5. Tom's idea**

After classes we met at the school gates. Constantly hungry Tom immediately announced: "I'm hungry!"

"You're always hungry," Nick snapped. "Why didn't you eat in the canteen?"

"I did," Tom replied. "But now I'm hungry again."

I turned my back on them, smiling secretly. Tom's organism demanded almost twenty-four-hour feeding. We went through the school gates and slowly walked down Craigend Road. On the way Tom dropped into a shop and in a few minutes went out, holding a packet of chips and two apples in his hands. He shoved one apple into his pocket and immediately sank his teeth into the other.

"Yuck! It's dirty!" Richelle shivered.

"Come off it," Tom waved her off, wiping the apple with his sleeve. "See? It's clean now. Besides, the shop assistant said that these apples were pollutant-free."

"Pollutant-free and just dirty are completely different things," I pointed out sententiously. I wanted to tell him about microbes, which could be on unwashed fruits, but Liz quickly interfered.

"We should decide what we are going to do," she said, sternly looking at me and making me shut up.

"Well, I've got one thought," Tom mumbled with his mouth full.

"Oh, we're lucky that you still have got at least one thought," Nick reacted instantly. "After such adventures with Mr Shakespeare someone else wouldn't be able to think at all."

"Get off my back with your Shakespeare, Kontellis," Tom pouted.

"He's rather yours than mine," Nick retorted.

"Shakespeare belongs to the whole humanity," I muttered.

"Right, Elmo," Sunny giggled. "You think globally."

"Will you listen to me or not?" Tom threw the apple core into a garbage bin and pulled the second apple out of his pocket.

"Guys, let's listen to him," Nick said with fake respect. "Otherwise this one and only thought will go away from Tom. What will we do then!?"

"Speak, Tom!" Liz demanded. "We're listening to you."

"That guy, who nearly drowned yesterday," Tom said importantly. "We thought that he might be connected with the thieves, didn't we? So why don't we visit him in the hospital?"

"We'll visit him," I nodded. "But to tell the truth I don't know what we'll get from this visit."

"I can tell you what we'll get, Elmo. Black eyes," Nick lifted one eyebrow. "The "nearly drowned man" is likely to punch us in the face. That's all what we'll get."

"If we ask him probing questions, he might remember what happened to him that night," Liz objected. "I heard a lot of such stories."

"I think Tom's right," said Sunny. "The only thing we can do now is to visit this man. First of all, his memory might have come back already. And second of all, it's just polite."

"Let's not be in a hurry," Richelle frowned sulkily. "I agree with Nick. Before visiting him we should find out how this man feels and whether he's as aggressive as he was yesterday."

"That's easy, Richelle," Tom grinned. "You'll come over to him and we'll see whether he'll punch you or not."

"How funny," Richelle pouted.

"It's very, very bad, young man," Nick drawled in a mournful voice, winking at Richelle. "When you're dyi-ing, you'll remember how you lau-ughed at your frie-ends. And you'll be ve-ery very so-orry for that, but it will be too-oo late."

Richelle and I burst out laughing. The others stared at us in bewilderment.

"What?" Sunny said suspiciously.

"It's Howshedied," grinned Nick. "Mrs France's sister."

"Howshedied?" Liz re-asked. "Who is it? Is she from Arabia?"

"From Timbuktu!" Nick barked, probably getting sick of explaining about Miss Howshedied. "She dances African folk funeral dances all days long!"

"Really?" Tom gaped at him.

"Almost," I grinned and told them about Matilda Geraldine.

"You mean that her second name's Geraldine?" Tom exclaimed.

"Tangerine is her second name!" Richelle giggled.

"Hey, it sounds not bad," Sunny laughed. "Matilda Tangerine Howshedied. Arabian citizen."

"What's her real surname, by the way?" I looked at Nick and Richelle.

"Oh, her surname isn't better," Nick drawled. "Zeitunyan-Belous."

"Wow," Tom breathed out in fascination. "It's even funnier than our Drisk-Haskell!"

"Of course it's funnier," Nick nodded. "Drisk-Haskell got her surname from her husband. But Howshedied's been living with this surname since her birth."

Speaking, we reached the coast and trudged along the tide line.

"Listen, guys, I wonder" Tom said in a grim, lugubrious voice, "our only witness ha-asn't died yet?"

"Oh, remember how he was drowning!?" Nick drawled.

"He was choking, but they kept holding his head under the water!" Tom added with an evil grin.

"Not bad," Sunny giggled.

"I know!" Tom laughed.

"Oh, by the way, did you see the Work Demons today?" all of a sudden Liz asked. "I wonder what they are doing."

"I bet Henshaw hit Nutter on the head because he hadn't found the picture yet," Nick drawled in a tragic voice. "Now the rest of them are hiding, while Nutter is lying in his bed and dy-ying!"

We burst out laughing, screaming and clutching at each other. Bending double with laughter, Tom tripped over a stone and nearly fell flat on his face.

"If someone mentions about Matilda Tangerine Howshedied, _I_ will die!" Sunny groaned.

"Guys! Be serious!" Richelle moaned, trying to stop herself from laughing. "If you still want to find the picture before the Work Demons, of course."

"Oh, and there they are!" Liz exclaimed, pointing at the bay.

We looked in the direction she was pointing. All six of them were swimming in the cold water, diving from time to time.

"They really seem to think that the picture is there at the bottom," Sunny snorted.

"Yeah. It will be funny if they find it there," I said.

"It's so cold," Liz shivered. "They shouldn't swim in so cold water. They easily can catch pneumonia or something even worse."

"Guys, look! Henshaw is in a diving suit," Richelle giggled.

"The way things are going, he will find a scuba by tomorrow," Tom muttered.

"If he finds a scuba," snorted Nick, "he'll dwell down there in the ocean."

"Okay, listen," I said quietly. "The Demons won't be looking for the painting in the ocean forever. Even they aren't so stupid. Probably they will be disappointed in their idea already today and will think of something new. So. It means that we should use the time when they're diving as usefully as possible."

"I'm telling you, let's visit the nearly-drowned guy," Tom repeated.

"He's right," Sunny agreed. "Maybe he'll clarify something. And I think that we should check the coast again after that. It'll be low tide. Who knows, maybe we'll find the fourth fragment of the picture frame."

"But we can't visit Mr Adaskey empty-handed," Liz said doubtfully. "Let's buy a bunch of flowers."

"What for!?" Tom snorted in disgust.

"What "what for"? Liz turned to him.

"Why spend money for such rubbish," Tom waved his hand. "I suggest buying a chocolate bar or something tasty."

"Typical of Tom," Nick snorted.

"Typical or not, I agree with him," I supported Tom. "I think this guy will be more pleased to get something tasty than flowers."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6. Our visit to the hospital**

On our way to the hospital we dropped into a shop and bought a large chocolate bar and fruits. Plus Liz convinced us to buy a small bunch of lilies.

"Very poetically," Nick commented, looking at the flowers. "With best wishes from sympathetic Raven Hill kids."

"Sounds good. You'll tell him these words," Sunny nodded.

"By the way, if it hadn't been for Sammie Palmer, this guy would have been dead now," Tom pointed out with a so important look as if he himself helped Mr Palmer to do artificial respiration.

"I can imagine how much our Tangerine would have been happy in this case," Nick snorted. "Poor young ma-an! His death was so te-errible!" he drawled in a lugubrious voice.

The rest of us burst into laughter again. Giggling and joking we reached the hospital and stopped in front of the glass doors.

"Be serious," Liz said severely, turning to us. "Remember that we are here to visit a man in a serious psychic shock."

We put on important and solemn expressions and walked through the glass doors into the foyer.

"What do you want?" the nurse on the reception desk immediately asked us.

I stepped forward. "We want to visit…er… a drowned man…" my voice trailed off as I realised that I completely had forgotten the man's name.

The woman looked around at us with visible distrust. "Tell me clearly, where and when this man drowned."

"Of course in the bay, where else?" Tom muttered. "And anyway, are there a lot of drowned men here in this hospital?"

"There are no drowned men here in the hospital at all," the woman answered. "Drowned men are in the mortuary."

"But our drowned man is not in the mortuary yet, he's here in this hospital," Tom went on arguing.

"Are you kidding me!?" the nurse shouted.

"You misunderstood us," Nick shoved Tom aside and turned on his charm. "We've come to visit a man, who _nearly_ drowned yesterday." As evidence he pointed at Liz, who was holding a bunch of flowers in her hands.

"What's his name?" the woman said more friendly. I don't know how Nick managed to do it, but she really seemed taken with him.

"Ross Adaskey," said Nick, smiling one of his best smiles. "We're his friends."

"Okay," the woman nodded, looking at Nick. "You can go. But before that I have to write down your names. The police's order."

We exchanged glances. None of us wanted to have our names written down in the hospital's visitors' book. The nurse, meanwhile, took a pen and was staring at us expectantly.

"So?" she drawled suspiciously. "Who's the first?"

"Me," Tom stepped forward. "Write. Urcho Kaleva Howshedied," he introduced himself.

The nurse stared at him, her jaw dropped. "Urcho what? What nationality are you, young man?"

"I'm an Egyptian," Tom said proudly.

Nick snorted. Liz and Sunny giggled.

"Egyptian?" the nurse raised her eyebrows, looking attentively at Tom. "You don't look like an Egyptian at all."

"It's because he's a half Egyptian. His father is an Egyptian and his mother is from Mexico," Nick chipped in, looking very serious.

"Well, anything can happen in this world," the nurse shook her head. "Okay, you," she glanced severely at Tom, "spell your name."

Stifling smile, Tom dictated his "name". "Next," she barked when she'd written it down.

"Matilda и Gerald Zeitunyan-Belous," Nick introduced himself and Richelle with a charming smile. "We're brother and sister."

"Brother and sister?" the nurse looked up at them doubtfully. "Are you?"

"Yeah. It often happens in our family. If one child is dark, the second one certainly will be fair-haired. And vice-versa," Nick explained.

The nurse shook her head doubtfully, but asked him to repeat their names.

"Matilda and Gerald Zeitunyan-Belous," Nick repeated. Richelle buried her face in her hands. I noticed that her face was bright pink.

"Some people think it's funny to give their children weird names," the nurse muttered, properly writing down "Nick and Richelle's names" into the visitors' book. "Next," she looked up at us.

"Christina Drisk-Haskell," Sunny said calmly.

Nurse took it with icy calm. I'd say she even was glad. "At least your parents gave you a normal name," she murmured under her breath. "Unlike some," she glanced sideways at Tom. "Okay, who's next?"

Liz and I exchanged glances. I guess we both were too shy to trick like that with natural smiles.

"Perl Plummer," Liz said, avoiding looking at the nurse.

The woman wrote it down and glanced at me.

"Jack Smith," I said, feeling my face getting red.

"Okay," she nodded. "You can go. The fifth room. Ground floor."

We walked down the corridor. When we went far enough from the nurse, we all burst out laughing.

"You should have warned us before tricking like this," Nick glanced reproachfully at Tom. "I thought I would have a stroke when I heard that you were Howshedied."

"See who's talking, Geraldine-Tangerine," Tom laughed.

"Hey, stop laughing!" Richelle whispered. "Have you forgotten where you are?! Because of your stupid jokes we didn't ask about Mr Adaskey's state."

"Go back, Matilda, and ask," Nick grinned.

"You go, Tangerine," Richelle pouted.

At that moment Urcho Kaleva Howshedied noticed a young man in a blue uniform, who was pushing a trolley with dirty bedclothes up the corridor.

"Excuse me," the fake Egyptian stopped him. "Do you know how Ross Adaskey from the fifth room feels?"

"Everyone here feels well, except for those who already are in the mortuary," the young man replied cheerfully and pushed his trolley further.

"Oh, great," Richelle muttered.

"Stop whingeing, Matilda," Sunny glanced severely at her.

"We'll see who's whingeing when Ross punch you in the eye," Richelle snapped.

We came up to the fifth room and stopped, glancing at each other.

"Who's the first?" Tom asked.

"Oh, Urcho Kaleva, you're such a coward," Sunny sighed and stepped forward. She twisted the door handle, opened the door and bravely stepped inside.

I craned my neck to see over her shoulder. Mr Adaskey was lying on the bed, staring out the window. When Sunny came in, he turned his head and stared at her inquiringly.

"Hello," Sunny said and politely smiled.

"How do you feel," Liz added.

Ross' lips twisted into a faint smile. "Fine," he croaked.

"See?" Sunny turned to us. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid," the man said hoarsely.

"Not you. I said this to them," Sunny pointed at us. "They were afraid".

"What were they afraid of?" the man asked a new question.

"Well, when we saw you yesterday on the beach, you looked so awful," Liz smiled. "That's why we were afraid of visiting you."

"But now you look much better, Mr Adaskey," Sunny added.

"It's for you," Liz held out a bunch of flowers to the man.

The man took the flowers, stared at them for a few seconds, twisting them in his hands, then he threw them onto the bedside table and stared at us expectantly.

"Er… We've come to see you... How do you feel?" Liz said uncertainly and turned to us.

"The doctor said that soon they'd let you go home," Sunny said with fake cheeriness.

"The bay is so beautiful," Tom grinned, taking a step forward and holding out a chocolate bar to the man. "It's also for you."

The "nearly-drowned man" automatically took the chocolate bar. For a while his eyes were darting from us to the chocolate. Then all of a sudden his eyes filled with blood. He sat up on his bed and screaming "I'll kill you!" he stabbed Tom in the stomach with the chocolate bar.

In astonishment and horror Tom began staggering backward and rammed into a drip stand, which crashed to the floor with a terrible noise. Tom fell down onto it and in no time they turned into an odd and quite indivisible thing.

"I'll kill you!" Ross growled again.

He jumped off his bed and darted towards Tom, who was rolling on the floor, struggling with the drip stand.

"Tom! Don't touch him!" Sunny rushed to the man. Ross glanced at her and saw Nick, who'd stood behind Sunny. Forgetting about Tom, he dashed across the room towards him.

"I'll kill you too!" waving the chocolate bar like a knife, he attacked the new enemy.

Nick adroitly dodged. Ross shot a look of pure rage at me. I leaped aside and ran across the room to the window. Ross left me alone and tried to catch Nick again. For some time Nick and I had been dodging and running around the room. Tom was still fighting with the drip stand. The three girls were standing in the doorway, looking at us with their mouths open.

At the very last Ross seemed to be getting tired. Tom, meanwhile, finally managed to tear himself from the drip stand and tried to stand up, clutching at the bedside table, which immediately crashed straight down onto him.

These new impressions made the "nearly-drowned man" distract from Nick and me. Besides, he noticed completely thunderstruck Tom, who'd been lying near the prostrated bedside table and drip stand. Obviously deciding that Tom was his enemy number one, Ross dashed towards Tom, holding the chocolate bar like a knife, intending to inflict a sledge blow.

I don't know what would happen if it hadn't been for Mr Palmer senior, who opened the door right at that moment and stepped into the room, widely smiling. He held a huge pineapple in one hand, and a plastic bag, full of juice boxes and food stuff in the other hand.

"Hello, dear Ross!" he shouted. "How do you feel today?"

Without noticing what was happening around him, the old man rushed towards Mr Adaskey, who's been towering over Tom with his chocolate bar in midair, ready to attack.

"Do you like pineapples, dear?" he asked, and without waiting for the answer, he solemnly handed the pineapple to Ross.

Ross disdainfully threw aside the already melted and shabby chocolate bar, and stared at the old man with almost mad, rapacious eyes. Hardly had we understood what was going to happen, when Mr Adaskey grabbed the lush green leaves of the pineapple, and letting out sacramental "I'll kill you!" he hit Mr Palmer on the head.

Completely thunderstruck by such development of events, the old man shrieked and using his bag as a shield, he began to back towards the door. Tom, who'd already fairly well adapted himself to the rough battle conditions, jumped to his feet and attacked Ross from the back. Nick sprang at him from the other side. The "nearly-drowned man" crashed down to the floor, Tom and Nick sprawled down on the top of him. Falling, Ross dropped the pineapple. It flew past my head and bumped into the big breast of a nurse, who'd come into the room to see what was going on.

A second later the nurse was pushed by Mr Palmer, who kept retreating in panic. They both screamed and fell. The plastic bag tore and the food stuff rolled all over the room.

"What's going on here?" suddenly a loud voice snarled. I looked back. A tall, strict-looking man in a blue uniform was standing in the doorway.

"I'll kill you!" Ross shook off Tom and Nick, and flung himself at the doctor.

"Pineapple! Don't let him pick up the pineapple!" Liz screamed.

I don't know how many victims there would be, if Ross hadn't slipped on a spilled yogurt. He fell. Two guys, probably nurse-aids, one of which we had seen in the corridor before, ran over to him.

"You told us he felt well," Tom said to him reproachfully.

"Well, doesn't he?" the guy panted, putting Ross into a straight-jacket. The other guy gave him a sedative injection.

They put Ross onto his bed and in a few minutes he sprawled on it with such an innocent expression on his face as though it wasn't he who'd caused this dust-up.

"What did I tell you?" the doctor glared at Mr Palmer. "Mr Adaskey needs rest. You shouldn't visit him until he feels better."

"But I want to know what happened on the beach," the old man said capriciously.

"He'll punch you on the head, then you'll know!" the nurse barked. "Don't you realise that he's in a shock? His head doesn't work properly!"

"But I saved his life!.."

"Mr Palmer, I'm grateful to you and your son for saving his life, but I beg you, _don't come here_," said the doctor. "I promise, I'll give you a call when you're allowed to visit him." He turned to us. "Who are you?" he asked severely. "What are you doing here?"

We exchanged glances. By the others' faces I could say they were rapidly thinking of what to answer to him when the nurse from the reception desk stormed in with the visitors' book in her hands.

"Mr Wemmel," she panted. "What did they do?"

"Lina, tell me," the doctor glared at her. "Why did you let these kids in? I told you that no one should disturb Mr Adaskey. And the police forbade any visits."

"But they said… they said that they'd helped to save him," Lina mumbled. "And I did everything what you'd said. I wrote down their names. See? Here they are."

She opened the book and held it out to the doctor. He glanced. His eyebrows shot up until they were almost hidden in his hair.

"Urcho Kaleva How... how... ham... how...," he murmured, squinting to read Lina's scrawl. "What have you written here?" he growled, glaring at her.

We went quiet. We couldn't say our fake names in front of Mr Palmer, could we?

"Howshedied," the doctor had finally read. "_What_?" his eyes widened again. "Father is an Egyptian and Mother is a Mexican? Which one of you is this Urcho Kaleva?" he glanced at us.

"It's him! This tall boy," Lina helpfully jabbed her finger at Tom.

"Tom?" Mr Palmer snorted with laughter. "Egyptian? If he's an Egyptian, I'm an African! It's Tom Moysten, my old friend Brian's stepson."

"Madhouse," the doctor summarized. "Egyptians. Africans… Do you know these young people?" he asked Mr Palmer.

"Of course I know! Very nice kids. I was much worse in their age. And I still am!" he grinned proudly.

At that moment Ross half opened one eye and longingly whispered "I'll kill you!"

"Now. Mr Palmer, you take these kids away from here," the doctor ordered. "Deal with them on your own, which of them is Urcho Kaleva. I personally have had enough with one Mr Adaskey. Come on, get out!"

We had no choice but to leave the welcoming health institution. Together with Mr Palmer we went outside.

"It was funny, huh?" Mr Palmer grinned as we walked down the path towards the road. "By the way, Miss Vortek told me that the police had interrogated people who knew Mr Adaskey. Neighbours and his friends describe him as a very calm, intelligent man."

"Now he looks more like a crazy maniac," Richelle muttered.

"I'm sure he'll get well soon," Mr Palmer said in his usual optimistic way. "Listen," he said confidentially after a little pause. "Please, don't tell anyone that I was here. You know, my wife's crazy about my health. If she learnt that this guy hit me in the head, I won't be able to leave even my bedroom."

"Don't worry, we won't tell anything," Liz assured him.

"And you in turn don't tell anyone about us," Tom demanded.

"About Egyptian father and Mexican mother?" the old man laughed.

"And that we were here," Nick put in quickly.

"I won't," Mr Palmer grinned. "Don't worry. I'll be as silent as a grave."

I doubted that this man, who loved gossips more than anything in the world, would be as silent as a grave, but I had to rely on him. He shook our hands and hurried away. We started slowly walking down the street.

"I will never go to see this guy again," Nick said in the gloomiest voice.

"Relax," Sunny grinned. "No one will ever let us see him again."

"Even if they let us, I won't go," Nick went on. "Even if we lose this case."

"What about the reward, Nickers?" Tom reminded him.

"What's the point in reward if this guy kills me?" Nick muttered.

"Sammie will give you a posthumous reward," Tom jeered.

"I don't want posthumous," Nick snapped.

"How can you be so selfish?" Tom shook his head reproachfully. "Can you imagine how much our Tangerine would be glad! She would be telling around how you were dy-ying by maniac's hands!"

Liz and Sunny burst into laughter. Nick gloomily glanced at them.

"Okay, listen," Sunny said, stifling giggles. "I think we should search the coast again. I know it's quite late already, but the last piece of the picture frame might be there. We can't let the Work Demons find it!"

"Sunny, you haven't forgotten about the tests, have you?" I grumbled in an old wise woman's voice. "We're having tests the day after tomorrow. We should go home and prepare."

"When we were little kids I used to wonder why Elmo didn't have a grandmother," Nick drawled spitefully. "Now I know the answer. Elmo is a grandmother for himself."

"Drop dead," I muttered, glaring at him from under my eyebrows, but didn't mention about the tests any more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7. Tom's feat**

We reached the coast and slowly walked along the tide line, looking at the ground.

"Honestly, I don't understand what we're doing here," Nick was grumbling. "If there was the last piece of the picture frame, we'd find it yesterday."

"All the same we should check," Tom objected automatically. Though he didn't look too cheerful either.

The sun was setting, staining the sky a deep pink. It was getting darker and colder. Chill wind blew from the ocean; big, strong waves were lapping at our feet as we walked along the tide line.

"Nick's right, if the last piece of frame were here, we'd already find it," Richelle whinged. She was limping in front of me; her high heels were constantly drowning in the sand. "Why are there so many rocks on this beach? It's just impossible to walk."

She took Nick's arm. Hardly had she done it, when there was a loud cracking noise. Richelle shrieked and fell to the ground, pulling Nick downward after her. Swearing, Nick stood up and started to haul Richelle to her feet.

"Are you okay?" he asked irritably, brushing sand off his jeans.

"No, I'm not," she sat down on a big flat rock and lifted her foot, staring sorrowfully at the shoe. The heel was broken.

Liz bent down and began to dig in the sand. "Here it is," finally she handed the broken, dirty heel over to Richelle.

"How do you think," Richelle looked at us, "is there any shoe repair shop nearby?"

"I doubt it," Sunny replied flatly. "Anyway, we won't go back and look for a shoe repair shop for you until we check the coast. It's getting late. We can't waste our time. No one asked you to put on shoes on such high heels."

Richelle pouted, but didn't argue. Silently, she stood up and limped forward, leaning on Nick. Though, soon they accommodated themselves so well that Richelle even said that she didn't need to look for a shoe repair shop any more, because Nick would help her to get home.

"Tomorrow I'll go to the shop where I bought these shoes. It's nonsense! These shoes cost a fortune. I've been wearing them for only a week!" she was complaining, staggering down the coast, using Nick as a crutch.

Sunny rolled her eyes and turned to the bay. "Hey, look over there!" she exclaimed, pointing at the ocean. "See? Something is floating there!"

We all craned our necks, peering in the direction she was pointing. Something golden was bobbing on the waves, but it was so far that none of us could understand what it was. But we all agreed that it might be the last piece of the picture frame.

"It seems to be drifting nearer," Liz said doubtfully. "Maybe this thing soon will be washed ashore?"

"You know, Liz, it's very late. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like waiting half the night for this thing to be washed ashore," Richelle muttered.

"It's something long, narrow and golden," said Sunny, squinting at the ocean. "It really can be the last piece of the frame."

We looked at each other in hesitation. Now everyone considered that we just needed to know if it was the last fragment of the stolen frame or not. Waves were rolling over each other and hit the shore. The mysterious thing was drawing nearer and nearer, but very slowly. Richelle was right - it might take half the night for the thing to reach the shore.

"As far as I remember the sea is shallow here," Liz said thoughtfully. "And it's a low tide. Maybe it's possible to walk over to this thing?"

"I'm not going there," Nick shuddered, wrapping his jacket around him in the cold breeze.

"Oh, okay! I'll go," Tom decided to sacrifice himself.

"That's right," Richelle instantly agreed. "You're the tallest. You have more chances to walk up to this thing than any of us. And we finally can go home after that."

Tom pulled off his shoes and socks, and rolled up his jeans above the knees. "Okay, I'm going," looking like a soldier, who was going to sacrifice himself for the sake of his country, Tom slowly stepped into the water. A wave came up and rolled into him. "It's cold," he complained, turning to us. He stood for a moment, then moved forward.

"Tom, it's a folly!" Sunny tried to stop him.

"Folly is Tom's second name," Nick muttered.

Tom continued slowly moving forward. Liz was right, the sea was shallow here. Tom had gone several meters forward, but the water was still lapping at his knees. Having made several more steps, Tom turned to us again.

"Where's this thing?" he shouted. "I can't see it."

We all stared at the ocean. The golden thing, which had been bobbing on the waves, disappeared. In twilights it was almost impossible to see such a little thing between white horses on waves.

"Maybe it drowned?" Sunny suggested, peering into the ocean.

"No! There it is!" Liz shouted, pointing to the right. "It must have been washed aside."

"Tom, go to the right!" I yelled. "To the right! It's over there!"

"That's Tom for you," Nick drawled. "Yeah. Only Tom can go into such cold water without even working out which way to go."

"Tom! Come back! You'll catch pneumonia!" shouted Sunny.

"My jeans are already wet," Tom objected. "My legs and hands are numb with cold. I just can't leave it here now." He started moving towards the golden thing. We also walked to the right. A big wave hit Tom, completely drenching his jeans and jacket. At the very last Tom walked closer to the thing, held out his hand, but another wave threw the thing away from him. Tom struggled through the water towards it, and finally managed to catch it.

"Done!" he yelled, turning to us. "It's it! The last piece of the frame!"

"Come back!" Sunny shouted. "Tom, come back or you'll be completely drenched!"

Tom waded back towards the shore as fast as the ocean let him. Finally wet and trembling, he clambered ashore, tightly clutching the fragment of the picture frame in his hand. I grabbed it and started to inspect it from all sides. Sunny, meanwhile, took off her jacket and covered Tom's shoulders to warm him. Then she and Liz tried to dry his legs using their handkerchiefs, but it was useless, because the handkerchiefs immediately became wet.

"Hey, where's my shoes?" Tom muttered, his teeth chattering.

"They're over there, where you left them," Richelle pointed in the direction from which we'd come. "We've forgotten to take them when we walked down here."

"I'll bring. Stay here," Sunny darted back along the coast. She ran up to the rock where we'd left Tom's stuff, and started searching around.

"Sunny! What's up?" Tom shouted. "I'm freezing!"

"I can't find the second shoe," Sunny shouted back. "There's only one shoe here."

"What?" we gasped.

"Yeah," Sunny spread her arms. "Probably one shoe was washed away."

Liz, Nick and I ran up to her. Tom and Richelle limped after us. Sunny was standing, holding one of Tom's shoes in her hand.

"I've found only this one," she said. "It's even dry inside. But the second one isn't anywhere."

"Oh, great! Awesome!" Liz muttered.

"Hey, maybe you'll help me?" Tom exclaimed, his teeth chattering. "I'm wet and freezing!"

"I guess so," Nick drawled. "People usually don't swim in winter."

"Hang on," Richelle opened her bag. "I've got a plastic packet. You can put it on your foot. It's better than standing barefoot on the cold sand."

We wiped Tom's foot as dry as possible, put on the plastic packet over the sock and tied it to his ankle. Then Nick, Liz, Sunny and I took off our shoes and socks, rolled up jeans and started to look for Tom's shoe. We inspected every single stone and pit in the sand. Nick and I went into the water, groping with our hands on the floor, hoping that the shoe might be drowned nearby. But it was hopeless. Tom's shoe wasn't anywhere. Probably Sunny was right that waves had washed it away.

"I've had enough," after about half an hour Nick clambered out of the water, and chattering with his teeth, started to wipe his feet with a handkerchief.

"Okay, I'll have to go home without the shoe," Tom resigned to his fate.

Quickly we got dressed and trudged to the road. Rustling with the plastic packet, Tom hobbled first. Richelle limped after him, leaning on Nick.

"A team of invalids, as my granddad would say," I whispered to Liz.

"Eeyore the donkey would say another thing," Liz smiled. "Pathetic. That's what it is. Pathetic."

We went over to the crowded street. But once Tom stepped forward, everyone stared at his foot.

"Excuse me," Tom came up to an old woman. "Do you have a spare sock or woollen cloth or something like that?" he asked politely.

"No," the woman shook her head, edging away from him.

"Moysten, stop scaring people," Nick hissed, looking around self-consciously.

"Guys!" Tom pleaded. "I can't stand it any more. My foot is really freezing."

We went towards Craigend Road, but our houses were quite far from this place. It was already dark. The rain started spitting down, cold wind was blowing into our faces. Soon we all were wet and trembling with cold. Tom tried to warm himself by jumping on one foot, then he attempted to start a fight with Nick. But it didn't make Tom feel any better, because Nick was too annoyed for that and thumped him in the ribs.

"Guys," finally Tom said in a small voice, full of despair and misery. "My foot is going really bad. I barely can move with my fingers."

"Oh, okay," Nick muttered, pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket and calling a taxi.


End file.
